


Stop Running

by Mnemosign26



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Anders heals Varric and Fenris, Anders meets Varric and Fenris before Tranquility quest, Anders' Clinic (Dragon Age), M/M, Pre-Dragon Age II, Set directly after official ‘Anders’ short story, my orlesian warden commander is in love with anders dont fight me pls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnemosign26/pseuds/Mnemosign26
Summary: His brow furrows as he takes in the glow in my eyes, even brighter from closer-up. “What happened?” He gestures to my clothes. “Are you alright? That’s… a lot of blood.”“I did a terrible thing,” I tell him softly, “I did a just, righteous thing, but they didn’t deserve it, they would have hurt others like me, they should have lived, they would have killed me…”He holds up a hand to stop me, then moves it and places it gently on my shoulder. “Start from the beginning, Anders.”So I tell him.
Relationships: Anders/Male Orlesian Warden-Commander, Anders/Warden-Commander
Kudos: 6





	Stop Running

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve just finished this fic as a gift for a friend and thought someone else might appreciate it, too. This fic follows directly after the official ‘Anders’ short story. It features my Orlesian Warden-Commander, who is in love with Anders. Hopefully you all like him! Also, in this world state Alistair is king and my female elf Warden is queen of Ferelden (I know that’s not possible, just roll with it haha). Some of Anders’ and Hawke’s lines in the last scene are straight from the Tranquility quest, but with a few differences.

Is there a place for me anywhere?

I rush through Vigil’s Keep, trying to avoid the stares of passers-by. I’m covered in blood; it feels righteous, but also strange. I have blood on me frequently when fighting with the Wardens. Still, a part of me still feels confused by all the... _sensations_ involved in having a body. 

I think I might be getting better at distinguishing between myself and Justice. Although, perhaps once Justice (or, the part of me that is Justice, I suppose) grows accustomed to being in the real world, in a living vessel, the oddness of it all will fade, and I will no longer be able to tell us apart. 

A small scream wakes me from my thoughts: a boy, no more than fourteen, gazes at me in abject horror, the blood that coats my face and clothes, the barely noticeable glimmer in my eyes of where Justice peeks out as he settles into his new host. I speed past him and his mother, who averts his eyes, muttering something about “just another day for the Wardens.”

Finally, I reach the interior of the Keep, ignoring the gasps from Oghren and Sigrun, the amusement on Nathaniel’s face, the disapproval radiating from Velanna. Slowing my pace a little, I find my way to the Warden-Commander’s room.

I open the door without knocking, so incredibly eager to see him. He sits on the bed, his head down, lost in thought, though he looks up quickly when I enter. He breaks into a grin at the sight of me, and I feel such an intense love, love from which I will never escape.

Bastien.

His smile fades a little as his eyes meet mine, seeing the faint blue light emanating from somewhere deep behind them. His gaze travels down my clothes, the blood that covers my robes, then my hands. He looks up to my face again, and opens his mouth to question -

“Meow!” Ser Pounce-a-Lot jumps softly down from the bed and pads towards me, putting a paw on my foot in consolation. I laugh a little, watching him play.

“Anders,” Bastien’s voice pulls me back to the situation. My eyes snap up to his. He appears… concerned. Quite normal for him, though I have often remarked that concerned is not a good look for him. Usually that breaks his trance, and he laughs, the baritone sound the best music I have ever heard. Unfortunately, something tells me that kind of interaction would not occur right at this moment. 

“Bastien,” I murmur, taking a step towards him. 

His brow furrows as he takes in the glow in my eyes, even brighter from closer-up. “What happened?” He gestures to my clothes. “Are you alright? That’s… a lot of blood.”

“I did a terrible thing,” I tell him softly, “I did a just, righteous thing, but they didn’t deserve it, they would have hurt others like me, they should have lived, they would have killed me…”

He holds up a hand to stop me, then moves it and places it gently on my shoulder. “Start from the beginning, Anders.”

So I tell him.

Justice’s request, feeling I couldn’t have told Bastien because he would have disapproved, allowing the possession in an area where I was able to be found, Rolan smirking, saying he could kill me. The feeling of another part of me taking over, the raw power in my whole body, the knowledge that I could do anything. The blood on my hands as I tore off their heads. The taste of that blood in my mouth, the warmth, the sweetness, the feeling that this was _right._

It was justice, and I would bring that justice to all of Thedas. It was vengeance, and I would bring vengeance for all the mages who were oppressed, like me. It was… murder.

And now, again, I wonder who I am now, only this time I wonder aloud. I wonder if this is truly justice, if the Justice I knew would approve. I wonder if, as he said, the emotions of a host can truly corrupt a spirit. Did I have so much anger? Have I done this? Is Justice gone, and now there is only Vengeance?

By the end of the story, I’m whispering, I’m weeping softly, and Bastien’s hand strokes my shoulder, and the light in my eyes fades, and I’m just standing in the doorway of his room, our room, and I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life, and perhaps Anders no longer exists, and now I am only Vengeance.

I laugh, just a little. The irony is painful. This began with a deal between Anders and Justice, and now neither of them remain. Now it is only Vengeance.

“No,” Bastien answers, his voice low. I didn’t realise I was still speaking. “Perhaps Vengeance is there now, but I think Vengeance may only be part of Justice. Vengeance is part of Justice, and now Justice is part of you. But you get to choose how much of your life you control now.”

Silence. I think about that. Yes, Vengeance, or Justice, or whatever he is now is part of me, but maybe Bastien is right, too. Anders still exists within me. I can remain Anders. I can remain in control.

“You’re right,” I tell him, with a little smile, “I can control this. I am still Anders.”

“Good,” Bastien smiles tenderly back at me. 

“You’re not… upset?” I ask him, wondrously.

He sighs. “I’m not upset, Anders, of course not. I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything, or anyone. I just…” He looks at me, his smile tainted with sadness, “I just wish you’d told me about the deal with Justice beforehand.”

“I’m sorry,” I reply, shaking my head, “I wanted to tell you, but, what if you’d stopped me?”

“Didn’t you say this was a mistake?” Bastien questions. “If I’d stopped you, wouldn’t you be happy?”

“I suppose, but Justice still wouldn’t have a body.”

“Justice thought of the Fade as his home.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t think I can stay here.” I’d thought about it before. He nods solemnly, like he knew it was coming. “The templars will continue to look for me, and I don’t want to put you in danger. Besides,” I tell him, sitting down on the bed, watching as he sits beside me, “maybe I can work, earn money to rebuild Vigil’s Keep. And in the meantime, I can do what Justice and I wanted in the first place: help mages escape the Circle.”

“You know we can ask for a grant from King Alistair and Queen Sileas to rebuild?” Bastien covers my hand with his own, the two intertwined as they lay atop my knee. 

“I will go, and I will earn the money to rebuild. I will save some lives, hopefully, and I will run from the templars, hopefully, and I will work out exactly how to make sure I am in control. I need to learn about what this is,” I gesture to myself with my free hand, “so I can be more normal when I come back.”

“But you will come back?” Bastien pressed quietly.

“Yes,” I rest my head on his shoulder, “It may be years, but I will come back, my love.”

“Then I will be waiting.” I feel his smile, the movement in his face rippling through his entire body. _I do belong somewhere,_ I think to myself, _I belong here, with Bastien._

I lift my head with a grin, and our eyes meet. A second later, so do our lips.

~~~

I feel incredibly relieved to be off that boat. Two weeks at sea, everything moving, no control over the world around you. Travel has always scared me a lot, considering I never do anything but run. 

Kirkwall seems a dark place, grimy and full of mercenaries and pickpockets. I think I will fit in here - no-one will mind one more apostate. I hope.

I got off the ship all of three hours ago, and I’m already in the city. I feel guilty, that I should have gotten inside so easily when there are refugees who have been waiting outside since before the Blight ended. But I would be a fool not to have entered when I did, with the excuse that the Wardens sent me as an emissary to help the refugees. As soon as I got inside Kirkwall, I dropped anything that could allow them to recognise me again - they’ll never find their Grey Warden emissary. I’ve set up what few supplies I have - potions, mostly, but also some maps and artifacts from my time in Amaranthine - in a tiny, badly lit corner of a particularly seedy section of the city that, I’ve been told, is called Darktown. 

I sit on a creaky wooden chair I managed to steal from a nearby abandoned building and wait. I met a woman named Lirene just before I claimed this small room as my own, running a shop and helping the Fereldan refugees. I told her that if anyone came through who needed healing, she could send them my way. I imagine I’ll be getting business soon enough; most of the Fereldans are badly hurt, attacked by rogue darkspawn on their way to Kirkwall, or worse, injured in altercations with the guards who won’t let them into the city. 

I bought a pad of note paper from Lirene, and I take one sheet of paper now and rest it on my lap. My friend from the Lake Calenhad Circle, Karl, was moved to the Kirkwall Circle before the last time I escaped. I had planned to go visit him afterwards, but got wrapped up in the whole ‘Grey Warden’ thing, and then fell in love with Bastien. Now seems as good a time as any to reach out, see how he is. 

I write a letter to him, telling him of my escape, my time with the Wardens, and my arrival in Kirkwall. I omit the deal with Justice - knowing Karl, he would assume I was lying about something if I mentioned it, and, honestly, he’ll probably think I’m lying about something anyway. Then I ask how different the Kirkwall Chantry is from the one in Ferelden - and tell him that if he wants out, I’ll help. 

~~~

“Andraste’s tits, that hurts!” A low yelp accompanies the curse, and a set of limping footsteps sounds from just outside the clinic. 

My eyes flicker up from the letter to Karl I was writing, just in time to see a long-haired, bearded dwarf with a menacing-looking crossbow strapped to his back stumble inside, forced to lean against the wall to stay upright. A bloody, gaping wound adorns his stomach. 

“Ah. A blondie.” The dwarf winces, his voice cracking with the pain. “Bartrand clearly thought it was time for me to die, then.”

I roll my eyes and help him onto the bed. “My glorious, luxurious hair will not yet be the death of you.” 

“Yet,” he grumbles, but acquiesces. 

“What’s your name?” I ask him, mostly to distract him from the agony he was about to feel. In order to heal the wound, I have to magically clean it first, and I’ve been told that it hurts quite a bit. 

“Varric - _aaaaaaaaaah!_ \- Varric Tethras.” He screams. “You could’a warned me.” 

“Sorry,” I reply, not actually very sorry at all. I know from experience that if he’d known what was about to happen, he would’ve been more upset, not less. “So you’re _the_ Varric Tethras. The author?”

“The one and only. Although I’m leading an expedition into the Deep Roads now” Varric smiles. “Which book have you read? Or are you a die-hard fan, read all of them?”

“Sword and Shields.” 

He does a spit-take. “You read that pile of garbage? It isn’t even finished, where did you find it?”

“If I recall correctly, you _did_ publish it, chapter by chapter, in all the important publications.” 

He shakes his head in despair, apparently unable to believe that I read his most critically-acclaimed, although incomplete, title so far. “I’m not proud of it, I’ll have you know.”

“Noted.” The wound slowly begins to close up. “So how does a famous author end up with a potentially fatal stomach wound?”

“Game of Wicked Grace.” His eyes light up just talking about it. “You know the tavern in Lowtown, the Hanged Man? Playing down there can get pretty nasty. I was accused of cheating, and when I denied it, the guy I was playing against stabbed me.” He shrugs. “I’m not great at close-range fighting. Bianca’s more of a… beauty from afar.” He nods to his crossbow, now leaning against the bed. 

“Accused of cheating, my, my.” I tut sarcastically. “Well, were you cheating?”

He feigns taking offense. “Really, me? Cheat? C’mon, Blondie, surely you know me better than that!”

“I’ve known you for ten minutes,” I say evenly, “and from what I’ve seen of you, you’d be perfectly capable of cheating at cards. And I wouldn’t have anything against you for it, either.” 

Varric looks flattered. Shocked, but flattered nonetheless. “Well thanks, Blondie.” His brow furrows in curiosity. “What about you? Heard you’re a refugee, but you only just got here. What’s your story?”

I consider what to tell him. Maybe not everything… but at least some of it. He trusted me with his story, after all. “My name’s Anders. Yes, from Ferelden. I didn’t get here earlier because I was safe for a while - I was in the Circle. But just after the Blight ended, my seventh escape attempt was finally successful. Through a weird series of coincidences, I ended up pledging my services to the Grey Wardens.” 

“The Wardens?” Varric’s eyes widen. “Joining the Wardens is for life. How’d you leave?” 

“The templars decided that staying with the Wardens wasn’t enough. They tried to force me to go back to the Circle, and of course, I wasn’t having any of that. So I up and left.”

“And that was just easy for you?” He asks sceptically. “The Warden-Commander you served under just… let you go?” 

“Bastien understood my predicament. And when I left, I promised to come back in a few years. But I can’t pretend it wasn’t hard for me.” I cross my arms in front of me, using them as a barrier between myself and the feelings I don’t want to deal with - the knowledge that I won’t see Bastien again for a long, long time. 

“‘Bastien’?” Varric laughs, sitting up. “You were fucking your Commander?”

“I’m in _love_ with my commander,” I correct him, “but the fucking was nice, too.” 

“Well, of course he let you leave, then!” Varric spreads his arms wide in a confident gesture. “But why didn’t he try to defend you?”

“Because I told him that I could earn the money to rebuild Vigil’s Keep if I left. And don’t say that the king and queen could have loaned him the money - he told me that, too. I wanted to feel like I was helping, if I was going to leave anyway. Who knows? When I get back, it may have already been rebuilt by then.” 

He nods in agreement. “Well, for what it’s worth, you seem to be using your magic for good, so the templars don’t have anything to worry about. And if I get injured from a perfectly legitimate fight in a perfect legitimate establishment in the future… I’ll be asking for your services again.” He hops off the bed, sweeping the crossbow up as he walks towards the door.

I laugh loudly. “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”

“Be seeing ya, Blondie.”

~~~

_Anders,_

_The Kirkwall Circle is unforgiving. The things we got up to in the Lake Calenhad Circle would never be tolerated here - the first sign of disobedience, and one of us is made Tranquil. It is for this reason that I cannot remain here anymore. If I was still in Ferelden, I would be happy to remain in the Circle, but the templars here are oppressive, more so than even we are used to. I fear that they are on to me, however._

_I would like to take you up on your offer to help me, if it is still available. I await your response eagerly. But please, be careful, Anders._

_Your friend,_

_Karl Thekla_

_~~~_

_Thump._

_Clink._

_Thump._

_Clink._

I hear these sounds distantly, my mind still on the response from Karl that I received. It has now been three months since I first arrived in Kirkwall, and while I have seen Varric a few times since the first, I am certain that this set of limping footsteps is not him. For one, he would have been swearing impressively; for another, nothing Varric could possibly carry would make a _clink_ sound - he really doesn’t have that much money. The sounds get gradually louder, until they are accompanied by a sigh from the doorway, right in front of me. 

I jump up immediately, finally conscious of the fact that there is a silver-haired tattooed elf in front of me, and he needs my help. It is apparent that the thumps were caused by the weight on his foot hitting the ground as he limps, and the clinks were a result of the sheath at his waist, moving with his steps. The hilt of a longsword is visible at the tip of the sheath, and the elf’s hand never leaves it as he narrows his eyes at me.

“That looks painful,” I say pointlessly, gesturing to the deep, bleeding gash in his leg. 

He cocks his head at me in curiosity, but a frustrated expression marrs his face. “A mage, and not only that, but a mage who feels compelled to state the obvious. Wonderful.”

“Why does everyone think I can’t heal them based on things I can’t control?” I shake my head, exasperated. “Yes, I’m a mage, but only a mage could heal that wound. And I don’t generally state the obvious. It’s a special effort for you.” I raise my brows sarcastically. 

“Fine,” he grunts, “but I don’t like humour.”

I stumble, feigning offence. “You don’t like humour? How ever will I survive?”

“Hopefully, you won’t,” the elf mutters. He lies slowly on the bed, denying my offered aid in a sharp gesture. 

“You wouldn’t die of this wound, but it would make your life hard for a few weeks. You’re lucky you got here so quickly.” 

His eyes fight their way shut - he appears to not want to close them, but his exhaustion is getting the better of him. “Lucky? Never heard of him.”

My lips quirk upwards. “And you said you didn’t like humour.” A few seconds of silence… then I can’t take it anymore. “How’d you get it, then?”

“The tattoo?” He murmurs angrily. 

“No,” I reply, having almost forgotten about his unusual tattoos entirely, “the wound.”

“Oh.” His mouth sets in a hard line. “If you must know, my former owner is looking for me.”

“Owner?” I recoil. “What do you mean?”

“Your kind,” he spits, “a Vint mage. A magister.”

I swallow the bile that had risen up in my throat. “I might be a mage, but the Tevinter magisters are _not_ my kind.” 

“Mages,” he says derisively, “you’re all the same.”

“I do not condone slavery. I do not condone blood magic. I do not condone oppression.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it is unjust.” My voice deepens for a moment, my eyes glowing, though barely noticeably. I fight to regain control of myself, though the other part of myself - the part that is Justice - struggles against it. 

The elf doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes still shut, but his body tense. “You seem to have very fixed morals, for a mage.” He commented after a moment, most of the hostility from only a moment ago gone. 

“Yes,” I agree, “I have a keen sense of Justice. But that makes me want revenge… Still, I try to keep a tight hold on Vengeance.” I smile thinly. Of course, he doesn’t know the depth of my remarks. Regardless, they are true both in the sense that he understands them and in the sense that I mean them. 

“Hmm,” he hums, apparently in agreement. “What about you, then? You’re a mage - an apostate, it seems. How did you manage to evade the Chantry?”

“I’m from Ferelden.” I begin, choosing my words carefully. This elf appears to hate mages, and I can’t say I don’t understand, given his past slavery to a magister. “I was in the Circle, but I hated it there. They were so controlling, barely letting us interact with other people. Eventually, I got out. Then I joined they Grey Wardens, fought those talking darkspawn you hear so much about, and got told by the templars that I couldn’t be a Warden anymore; I had to go back to the Circle. I really didn’t want that to happen, so I ran again.” 

“You speak of being in the Circle as if you were enslaved,” he spits, “but mages need to be in the Circle to keep people safe.”

“I… didn’t mean to compare my situation to yours. Of course, I still had some rights… I just didn’t have enough. And not all mages are a danger. Some of us are protectors. I knew a woman in the Circle. Wynne. She left the Circle - she had the blessing of First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir - and accompanied the Hero of Ferelden on her quest to slay the Archdemon. She was never a danger.”

“The Hero? You mean the queen?” 

“Right. She killed the Archdemon, so the Hero is her title. But she is queen too, yes.” 

“A mage, accompanying the queen of Ferelden?”

“And she wasn’t the only one. I met another of her companions, who spoke of an apostate from the Korcari Wilds.”

“An apostate. This changes my perspective on the rulers of your country.”

I sigh in frustration, running a hand through my hair. “That’s the exact opposite view than I’m trying to convey! The king and queen of Ferelden are honourable people, and they allowed mages to aid them. Therefore, not all mages are terrible!”

A defeated expression crosses his face fleetingly, before it sets again. His eyes snap open and he sits up in a fluid motion. “Perhaps not all mages are evil currently, but they will almost always allow themselves to be tempted.” He looks thoughtful. “Are these templars still looking for you?”

“I don’t know,” I confess. “Probably, why?”

“You don’t appear to be tempted by the charms of demons. Yet. Keep it that way, and if the templars come looking for you, I will hide you. Become an abomination, or practice blood magic, and I will tell them where you are.”

I laugh. _If only he knew,_ I think. But I’m not about to pass up the offer. He might have been wounded in a brawl, but he does appear a formidable warrior. “I will fight with you, too. If your former…” I swallow. “If he tries to attack you again, come and find me. I will aid you.”

He smiles, his entire face lighting up. Even his tattoos seem bright as he nods at me. “Thank you, mage.” 

He hops off the bed and starts to walk out of the clinic, his sheath jostling once more. “Wait,” I call out. 

He turns, a hand on his hip. The smile is gone, the brooding expression back in place. Even so, I think his eyes seem more animated than before. “What?” 

“What’s your name?” 

He pauses, clearly wondering what to tell me. After a moment, he decides, and I think it must be the real answer. “Fenris.”

“I’m Anders,” I tell him. 

He nods, and with another brief, rare smile, he walks into Darktown. 

~~~

A loud, familiar voice sounds in the distance. A short, equally familiar laugh follows it. Then an unfamiliar voice, belonging to a female. I can’t make out the words. I _can_ make out the fact that they are fighting. Outside my clinic. 

The noise eventually dies away, leaving only the two familiar male voices, and the unknown female one. Their echoing footsteps draw closer to the clinic, and I jump to my feet. 

The woman has short, raven-black hair and piercing blue eyes. A red line stretches across her face. Her staff - _she’s a mage!_ \- is still in her hand, pointed towards him. She appraises me warily. Varric and Fenris, however, put away their weapons quickly. Varric smirks as I meet his gaze. Fenris only nods. 

My eyes return to the woman with her staff levelled at me. _Is she going to attack me?_ I wonder. I raise my brows and say, in what I hope is a convincingly threatening tone, “I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?”

“Strange occupation for a Warden,” she observes, though, to my relief, she replaces her staff on her back. “Aren’t you more about taint and death, not healing and salvation?” 

I laugh. “Yes, Wardens do tend to be more ‘darkspawn this, archdemon that,’ but I’m not with the Wardens for the time being.” 

“I’m part of an expedition into the Deep Roads.” She begins, but I cut her off with a raised hand.

“Would this be Varric’s expedition?”

Varric’s grin widens. “Yes indeed. Good to see you again, by the way, Blondie.”

“You too,” I smile at him. “And what is it you need from me?”

‘You know each other?” The woman looks surprised.

“As a matter of fact, I know both of your companions,” I gesture to Fenris.

A small “oh,” escapes the woman’s lips. I chuckle. After a second’s recovery, she answers my question. “Do you know a way in there? It could save people’s lives.”

“Of course I know a way in,” I shrug, “but I will die a happy man if I never have to think about the blighted Deep Roads again. I’m not about to -” I break off, thinking. Karl needs my help, but from his letter, it seems that the templars are more vigilant than I am used to. I could use all the help I can get in aiding him. “Although… a favour for a favour. You help me, I help you. Does that sound like a fair deal?”

She turns to Varric and Fenris. Varric nods, murmuring “I trust him.” Fenris sighs, but also agrees. 

“All right.” She stands straight. “What’s the favour?”

“I want to aid a friend. A mage; a prisoner in the wretched Gallows. The templars learned of my plans to free him. Help me bring him safely past them, and you shall have your maps.”

She thinks for a moment, but does not converse with Fenris or Varric this time. “You’ve convinced me.” She says after a while.

“Brilliant,” Fenris snorts, “now we’re not only making deals with apostates, we’re helping make more of them.” But he doesn’t complain.

Varric looks delighted. “Always a pleasure to manipulate the templars. Or anyone, really.”

“The name’s Hawke,” the woman holds out a hand. I shake it. “Caetlynne Hawke.”

“And I’m Anders.” I smile at her, this fellow mage so like me - though, I suppose, she did have her weapon out in my clinic. 

Nevertheless, looking at these three people before me, these new friends, I think, perhaps there is somewhere I belong that is not at Bastien’s side. Perhaps, at least for now, I belong here.

Perhaps now, I can stop running. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
